Black Cherry
by Guro-san
Summary: Love is not gentle, not kind. Love is not real, and neither are happy endings.


_So it's been like…a year and a half since I've written anything? Woah. I've very reluctant to try and write again, but what the hell. I can't remember what they're usually called…Dylan and some other name I detest. Red Goth will be Nate, Curly is Nicholas, and Kindergoth will remain Georgie. I complained to a friend that I disliked the fandom names and she threw those at me. If you saw a very silly story around here with those names used, that was her. Very tempted to name them after members of The Cure…_

Nate couldn't remember a time when he believed in happiness. Maybe when he was younger, stacking brightly colored blocks into wobbly towers with sticky sugar covered hands. He only made a couple wishes on unnaturally colored birthday cakes, and once checked under his bed for monsters. As far as he could remember, he never sat under the sky wishing on stars, or jumped through puddles chasing rainbows.

He remembers once though, sitting at the river with his mother, ripping up stale bread and tossing it to crowding ducks as the sun threatened to sink away. He remembers laughing as the birds scattered for each crumb, honking as they waddled away. He doesn't remember the car ride home. Maybe then he believed in happiness, blinded by lullabies and mother's kisses.

That was just a cloudy memory anyway, drifting in the back of his mind, best left there.

The world of pastel and Disney fairytales, the world full of kind souls and friendships that sailed forever, ended before it could begin.

As he grew old enough to walk to school and stay up passed ten, the other boys his age spent their time gathering dirt under their nails and wasting away crowding television screens. He moved to the shadows, where no one could watch him burn nicotine and scribble down poetry, while sneering down on those who still believed they lived some kind of commercialized dream.

As his age continued to grow, the worlds around him stayed nearly the same. And so did he.

His innocence died fast, smothered silently by the smog of cigarette smoke and played off by numerous incarnations of Robert Smith's gloomy dirge, leaving Nate little time to mourn.

Why should he? As if he wanted to live such a frivolous life, wasting away dreaming of things like true loves and Paris Hilton popularity. Those lives lacked what his had, a barrier, build thickly around his heart and mind, shunning away the coldness and warmth of others.

Had he not created the roadblock between his world and theirs, Nate may have turned out to be a nicer, warmer person. The same could be said for his friends, who followed the same direction. Shunning those who did not follow, not caring to understand the other side of that roadblock.

But it was okay. Everything was.

Until Nate began to notice Nicholas. Ungracefully thin and tall Nicholas, owner of the most untidy raven curls, leader of South Park's goths.

He noticed the way he unconsciously runs his fingers through his hair and rocked a little when writing. He had always recognized his cold gaze, when he actually bothered to make eye contact. His eyes are almost the exact same color as Nate's, but darker. His eyeliner is always smeared a little, leaving smoky clouds, and he almost always exhales smoke from his nose, something Nate wasn't sure how to do.

He never laughed, rarely smiled, something Nate couldn't help but acknowledge bitterly. He himself owned a soft laugh that sounded a lot like a sickly rasp, a noise that angers himself to the point where he bites his own tongue.

Sometimes he can see hints of freckles underneath his white mask of concealer. Sometimes he wishes he could get close enough to count them. Nicholas skin is smooth and unblemished, something else Nate envied.

He notices things that make him warm up inside and avert his eyes in embarrassment. Nicholas's lips are bruised, he wonders if it's self inflicted or not and feels his heart sink before melting. He hears the way he groans softly when stretching his legs and wonders if he face is as red as his hair, and silently hates himself.

During all this thinking and wondering and noticing, Nate's world began to end. Slowly and surely the barrier he had spent so long building began to crumble, leaving his heart raw and weak. He wanted to rip it out and destroy it, step on and strangle it until every single drop of emotion had drained.

He wonders if Nicholas knows what he's doing to him and continues to scorn himself for ever having to notice such a person, someone so far above him.

He wonders if Nicholas will be there to pick up the pieces after he shatters, and doubts it completely, because there's no such thing as happiness.

_And so there's the...prologue? I'm thinking of changing the POV after this. And! I realized Whil-o-Whisp seems to be the first in this fandom to call the curly goth Nicholas, so I'll go ahead and hand all credit to them. What a good name. I appreciate all comments and crits! They make me smile like nothing else._

_P.S. I have yet to formulate a plot to this. Awesome._


End file.
